


The Mad Cardinal

by The_Chronicler



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Hurt d'Artagnan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24803284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Chronicler/pseuds/The_Chronicler
Summary: One of those scenes that just hits you at 1am and you can't go to sleep without sharing it.A Mad Cardinal wants to make a sacrifice to cleanse Paris of her sins.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 65





	The Mad Cardinal

**Author's Note:**

> I really don't have a story in mind for this. It was just a scene that was scratching at the back of my eyeballs that needed to be written. If another author can think of something to do with it, please, let me know.  
> If not, I may come back to it later down the road.

The mad Cardinal held his arms out and spun, his red robes snapping as they whipped about him. He stumbled to a halt in front of the royal family. He grinned at them as he hovered over their kneeling forms. “And, now,” he giggled to his captive audience, “who will be sacrificed first to cleanse Paris of her sins?”

d’Artagnan jerked against his captors, but a knee pressed down in the small of his back, holding him still. His arms were pulled back and up even farther until he could feel his shoulders begin to slip, burning with pain. A Pretender leaned over him and snarled in his ear “Leave it, soldier. You might live through this if you just let it be.”

“You are insane!” Cardinal Richelieu accused from where he knelt on the floor beside his King. 

The pretend Red Guard behind him swatted the back of his head. “Show some respect to your Savior!”

Belair giggled and shrugged. “Who shall it be?” He pointed his scepter at King Louie, “Shall it be the Father?” Then to the child in the queen’s arms “The Son?”

“Noooo.” Whimpered the King as Anne tried to twist away, sheltering her baby with her own body.

“Or…” Belair jabbed his scepter at Richelieu’s shoulder. “The Holy Ghost?”

“Stop this at once, Belair!” France’s Cardinal demanded.

The scepter instantly whipped around, smacking across the old man’s jaw, slamming him to the ground.

Anne cried out, again trying to shield her baby, but the man behind her tightened his grip on her shoulder, holding her in place.

“Stop! Please, stope this!” Louie cried. 

Richelieu coughed, spitting out blood and bits of a broken tooth, as he pushed himself up.

Belair crouched down beside the fallen Cardinal and told him “You will have the honor of being last, my dear Brother, so you may pray for the souls before you.”

The Cardinal looked up at him, his eyes going big, showing his fear for the first time. But his voice still held a twinge of steel when he growled out “You will burn in hell for this!”

Belair cocked his head to one side. “Perhaps.” Then he rose to his feet again. “But Paris will be cleansed of her sins!” With a snap of his robes, he spun about and started back for the wooden cross in the middle of the room. “The Father, then!”

“Me!” d’Artagnan suddenly yelled.

The mad Cardinal stopped. With a tilt of his head, as if following the sound of the interruption, he slowly turned on his heal, until he found the Musketeer pinned to the floor by his own Red Guard Pretenders. “What is this?” he wondered. With a bob of his head, his men stepped off of the boy and jerked him upright, until he was kneeling, arms held out to either side. Belair stretched out with his scepter, using the sharp tip to brush the hair back from d’Artagnan’s eyes. “What is this?” he asked again. 

“Take me.” d’Artagnan reiterated. All he had to do was buy some time. The Musketeers were just outside. They had to be by now! All he had to do was buy some time!

Belair suddenly giggled, but silenced himself when he slammed the butt of his staff down on the floor. Bending over, he came close to the Musketeer until their foreheads nearly touched. “Why?” he whispered.

d’Artagnan swallowed down a lump that threatened to choke him. “I am a King’s Musketeer!” he declared.

Belair huffed. With a shake of his head, he rose and began to turn away.

d’Artagnan thought desperately, his eyes shifting to Richelieu, searching for any idea, of any possible way to save the King.

Just as desperate, the Cardinal shook his head.

“Because!” d’Artagnan yelled, demanded attention. “Because I am of the People!”

The mad Cardinal paused, turning a frown back at the young Musketeer. “Of the People?”

Again, he glanced at Richelieu, practically begging him to help.

“The People!” Richelieu repeated, looking nearly as confused as Belair, but understanding that the only way to save the royal family was to buy time. And if that meant buying it with a Musketeer’s life, then who was he to argue. Particularly if it was said Musketeer’s idea. “It is the souls of the People of Paris you are trying to save, is it not?”

“Then let me be the sacrifice!” d’Artagnan continued. “I offer myself, the soul of the People, for the Souls of the People!”

Belair stepped back to the Musketeer and looked down at him with a somewhat confused look. For the longest breath he seemed to just stare into the boy’s eyes. Then he released his insane giggle again. He held out a hand and, quickly, one of his Pretenders set something in his grasp. “The Son, then. The Son of the People!” he declared, pressing down a crown of thorns over d’Artagnan’s brow.

The Musketeer hissed as he felt the thorns scratched and cut his skin, letting droplets of blood drip down his face and ears.

As Belair turned and started back for the cross, d’Artagnan was dragged to his feet and pushed after him.

“Oh, dear Lord.” Queen Anne cried. “You cannot do this! He has done nothing wrong!” she tried to defend their protector.

“Silenced!” Richelieu hissed at her. “Would you rather it be your own son?”

“This is insane.” She protested, though her voice had dropped to a whisper, her arms tightening around her precious child. When she looked back at d’Artagnan he did his very best to give her one of those cocky grins Musketeers were famous for. But there was no hiding the terror in his eyes, and the Queen looked away, trying to hide her own tears.

When d’Artagnan was shoved back down to his knees over the cross, twisted and man handled until he was laying across it, his arms being tied down, a sudden bang interrupted the proceedings.

All eyes turned to the big doors as the jerked inwards again with another blow from the outside. 

“Hold the door!” snapped the Captain of the Pretenders, waving his men forward. Four of them rushed forward, shoving their shoulders against the heavy wood just in time to buffet another blow. Yells and shouts, snapped commands and threats sounded from both sides of the door.

“Quickly now!” Belair waved to the King, then the Cardinal, ordering them to their own crosses.

“No!” Louie screamed as he was dragged toward the cross. “Hurry! We’re in here!” he shouted to his would-be saviors as if they didn’t know where they were already.

“Get your hands off of him!” Richelieu commanded as he struggled against his own captors.

No time left to buy, d’Artagnan kicked out at the man holding the King of France when they got close enough. The first kick just brushed pass, but the second hit hard, knocking his feet out from under him.

Momentary freed, Louie rushed back to stand before his wife. “Stay back!” he warned, his fists doubled up like a small child rebuffing the idea of taking a bath.

“Nail him down!” Belair commanded, throwing a finger at the Musketeer.

The doors splintered and cracked. A pistol was shoved through a wedge and one of the Pretenders was slammed back by a musket ball.

“Take cover, your Majesty!” Richelieu shouted as he was thrown down upon his cross.

d’Artagnan struggled against the rope around his wrists. Two Pretenders knelt on his arms, the one on his right placing a spike against the palm of his hand and raising a mallet. “no, no, no….” he struggled.

The Pretended on his left was suddenly thrust forward, a musket ball ripping through his shoulder and out the front, spraying them with blood.

“For the Soul of Paris!” the mad Cardinal yelled.

The doors burst open.

The mallet came down.

Pain ripped through his hand, sending streaks of white fire up his arms.

Musket fire sounded.

d’Artagnan screamed.

“To the King!” Treville commanded his men as they cut through the few remaining Pretenders.

The mallet came down again.

Again a scream ripped from his throat.

“d’Artagnan!”

“Kill that man!” Richelieu commanded as he was hurried to safety.

That insane giggle. “Finish it!”

The mallet rose again.

Athos sword cut through the air, slicing through arm with such force the mallet went flying through the air. The Pretender never had time to scream before his throat was sliced and he fell away.

Athos dropped to his knees beside his brother, quickly cutting through the rope tying down his left arm while shouting “Aramis!”

Blinded by pain and panic, as soon as his left was free, he pushed his mentor away, rolling up on his right. Fingers dug and pulled at the stake that nailed his hand down to the wood.

“No! No, don’t let him do that!” Aramis cried as he rushed across the room. “Athos, hold him still!”

Athos pressed his hands own on the boy’s shoulders, pinning him once again. “d’Artagnan! Stop!”

But he was too far gone to hear him. Eyes blown wide, he bucked against him, struggling as if he was still in the grip of the Pretenders.

“Get them out of here!” Captain Treville commanded his Musketeers to get the royal family out of the blood soaked room and back to the safety of their quarters.

“Richelieu!” Louie called after his First Minister as he was hurried away.

The Cardinal hesitated over the wounded Musketeer. For a moment he felt an uncomfortable gratitude for the boy. Gratitude and sympathy.

The mad Cardinal giggled again, drawing his attention. 

“Captain, that… man…” Richelieu snarled.

“Will be taken care of!” Treville assured as his men had already taken him in to custody. “Now see to the King!”

Cardinal Richelieu snapped his own robes and hurried after his King.

“Porthos, hold him!” Aramis commanded as he dropped down beside Athos, taking a hold of the boy’s right arm. “If he keeps jerking, he’s gonna rip his hand. If we can get it out straight and clean, he has a chance…”

Prothos dropped down at d’Artagnan’s head, taking over the hold on his shoulders.

Athos leaned over, cupping d’Artagnan’s face in his hands, turning him to look up at him. “d’Artagnan, listen to me! We’ve got you! We’re here!” he assured in hush tones, trying to get through to him. 

The Captain crouched down over the right hand, adding his own strength to holding his man still. “What do we do?”

Aramis shook his head. “Nothing until he stills.”

Athos became desperate himself. “Charles!” he snapped.

Suddenly, the boy froze. He blinked, his eyes clearing. After another blink, he croaked out “Athos?”

“’ere ya are.” Porthos breathed a sigh of relief.

d’Artagnan scrunched up his eyes and began to arch his back against the pain.

“No, no!” Athos quickly leaned down close until they were nearly nose to nose. “Just look at me. Focus on me.” He ripped the crown of thorns off his head and threw it away, ignoring the pricks to his own fingers as he did so. “d’Artagnan… Charles… I’m right here! You’re safe now.”

“The… the King…” the boy gasped.

“Safe.” Athos quickly assured. “You did good. You kept them safe. Now, you need to stay still… real still! Aramis has to take care of your hand, but he needs you to be real still. Understand?”

“They… they nailed me… to a cross… Athos… nailed!” Tears squeezed out the corners of those dark eyes. “It hurts…” he struggled to get out.

“I know.” Athos breathed. “I’m sorry.” He glanced at Aramis. 

The medic had tied a tourniquet around his arm, already had a rolled bandage at the ready. The arm beneath him was stiff, but still. So he grabbed the end of the spike. Taking a deep breath, he gave his brother a nod.

Athos licked his lips. “Focus on me, d’Artagnan. Look at me and take a deep breath…” He winced as the boy screamed.

“Up!” Aramis snapped, throwing the spike over his shoulder and pulling the hand up. Treville quickly wrapped the bandage tightly around the bleeding hand.

Athos quickly sat back on his haunches, pulling d’Artagnan up and into his arms, where the boy laid, limp as death, against his chest. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Athos kept whispering into his hair, gently rocking the boy.


End file.
